sprouting seeds from dull razor blades
plucked from the neighbor’s garden;
the dead spider is left to rot
in the corner
of the room for the other critters
to ruminate their impending future state.
toothpaste drippings crust up on the
dusty bathroom vanity;
spots on the mirror from flossing
four day old popcorn out of my
cigar encrusted rotten teeth.
kush spread out upon the stacked
New Yorker magazines whose editors
continue to reject
my poems because they lack the
couth and rhythmatic astuteness
of better poets. this aggravates me
roll the kush with their magazine
pages; spark, light, smoke, inhale,
fly high to the top of the skyscraper,
piss ink and shit words on their
perhaps they do have a point.